


Miss Me?

by HolmesAndNotQuiteWatson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Did I mention it was angst?, M/M, Moriarty is an evil bastard, Nothing explicit, Post His Last Vow, Sorry but John doesn't like Mary any more, but not romantically, i kid you not, it's fluff, major angst, sorry - Freeform, well he does, well it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-10
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2018-02-04 04:08:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1764859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolmesAndNotQuiteWatson/pseuds/HolmesAndNotQuiteWatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When things go bump in the night no one counted on it being James Moriarty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hello Johnny Boy...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Not Quite Watson](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Not+Quite+Watson), [anya99](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anya99/gifts).



> Just a little something I came up with between chapters of Academy of Deduction (next chapter is in the works). Enjoy.  
> And, just to be clear, I do love Mary Morstan, but I thought… well this gem of an idea (well it's a gem to me) can't have her as John's.

_Seen a lot of injuries, then. Violent deaths…  
Yes.  
Bit of trouble too I bet.  
Of course, yes. Enough for a life time- far too much.  
Wanna see some more?  
Oh God Yes. ___

__Moriarty's face flashed to the forefront of John's mind, then Sherlock, arms stretched out and tipping, and falling. Magnussen, Mary with her gun pointed at his chest, and Moriarty- always Moriarty, face on a TV screen. John sat up in bed, heart pounding in his chest. He felt Mary roll over next to him, hand curled protectively over her now flat stomach. With a groan he sank back down onto his pillow and closed his eyes. John took a deep breath and tried to get back to sleep._ _

__A few seconds later Amanda started to cry, a soft mewl that soon turned into a wail. With a groan John surrendered his covers and stumbled out of bed. Mary mumbled her sleepy thanks and John walked through to his daughter's room. They always kept the door to and it creaked as John pushed it fully open. Amanda's crying stopped abruptly as John closed the door behind him. He turned and found himself facing an empty coat, a small depression in the blankets where Amanda should have been. His hand jumped automatically to where he'd usually have his British Browning, but his hand grasped empty air._ _

__Someone cleared their throat, just a soft sound, but it got John's attention. He looked up to see Jim Moriarty leaning against the window, Amanda sleeping softly in his arms, a gun pressed to her tiny head._ _

__"Hello Johnny Boy." Moriarty said cheerfully. John stared at the familiar face with a mix of terror and disbelief. Same (Westwood) suit, same face from his nightmares. "Did you miss me?"_ _


	2. And as time ran out

Why hadn’t he been more careful? John wondered, desperately trying to wriggle out of the grips of the two men holding him. He’d been kidnapped. Again. He almost felt ashamed at how easily he’d been brought down- he’d made it through several years in Afghanistan, why couldn’t he seem to manage one year in London without getting kidnapped? First Moriarty, then Magnussen. And now Moriarty again. Apparently John was the best way to announce his presence.

  
The two large men, balaclavas pulled down over their faces, sat him down in a metal chair. John took the opportunity to survey his surroundings. He was in some sort of underground bunker. Exits: one- a large steel door, and a heavy one at that.

  
The two men, who John affectionately nicknamed Spuds and Graham, moved away. Their tall, well built figures cast intimidating shadows in the light from the single bare light bulb that hung from the ceiling. John inspected himself and found he’d been tied- no chained- to the small chair. He moved experimentally, only to feel the cold touch of unyielding metal.

  
Tied to John there was a bomb. He sucked in a sharp breath and strained against his chains to see the timer. It read three minutes, but the numbers weren’t changing. An IED then, ready to be activated on command, whenever his captor chose to end him.  
The steel door opened at that moment. A familiar figure strode in and John’s heart clenched.

  
“Hello Johnny-boy!” he said happily. Moriarty. Moriarty, who had died on the roof of St. Barts. Moriarty, who had left Sherlock with no option but to jump off St. Barts and disappear for two years. Moriarty, who had appeared in his daughter’s bedroom in the middle of the night and told him if he didn’t come quietly he’d shoot her in the head.  
Not that John had had much choice. His hand had no sooner twitched towards where he normally held his Browning than Moriarty signaled one of his agents- hidden in the shadow of the bedroom- to jab John in the neck with some concoction or other. Either way, he had one hell of a headache.

  
“How’s life?” Moriarty asked, familiar creepy smile on his face. John spat and Moriarty’s eyebrows rose. “No, no, no, this won’t do.” He shook his head. Turning to the henchman John had named Spuds- he had an unfortunately round head with only a stubbly layer of hair- Moriarty whispered something. The guard nodded and left, taking his counterpart with him.

  
“Maybe you’re more amenable with company.” Moriarty mused, smirking.  
The henchmen returned, one now supporting a black eye and the other a bloody nose and a broken arm. Between them they held a limp figure. Thin, with curly hair and a long black coat. John’s stomach lurched. Sherlock.

  
He was too limp to be conscious, but at least he’d gone down with a fight, if the state of the two guards was anything to go by. “What have you done?” John asked, mouth dry.  
“Johnny-boy,” Moriarty said, shaking his head, “I haven’t done anything.” John frowned. “Yet.” Moriarty grinned sharkily. “What I’m going to do,” he paused dramatically “Is get my revenge.” John waited. “Thing is, Sherlock’s gone soft while I’ve been away.” John exhaled. Of course. Just like Sherlock had predicted when Moriarty’s face had shown on every screen in the United Kingdom. ‘The Frailty of Genius’, he’d said. Moriarty would want to gloat. Would want revenge on the man who’d discredited him in the end, beaten him.

  
Moriarty nudged Sherlock with his foot. “He’ll wake up in about sixty seconds.” He shrugged his shoulders and pulled a mobile phone out of his suit pocket. “I’d love to see his face when he realizes what’s going to happen to him.” Moriarty shot a glance at the security camera on the wall. “Oh never mind. I will!” The phone clicked as Moriarty typed in the password. “You’d better hope his mind hasn’t been addled by all that sentiment.” And with that, Moriarty pressed down on the screen of his phone and left.  
“Good luck Johnny-boy!” he called as the door swung shut behind him. John heard a bolt engage and then silence.

  
He looked down at Sherlock’s unconscious form and started to try and scoot his chair over in order to ascertain whether or not his best friend was okay. His efforts jangled the bomb and John caught sight of the timer. The clock had started to tick. The display now read 2.29.

As the clock ticked from 2.00 to 1.59, Sherlock began to stir. Relieved, John paused in his efforts to free his hands, which were now bloody and bruised.  
"Sherlock." John rasped. Sherlock sat up stiffly. His body was unbalanced but his eyes were alert.

  
"John." he said. "Moriarty got to you too then." He seemed unsurprised, eyes taking in the situation. "Injection to the neck, was it?" He began to work on John’s chains, testing for weaknesses and eventually pulling out a bobby pin.

  
"Sherlock." John interrupted. "Look at me. There's a bomb."

  
Sherlock’s face drained of what little colour it had left. “Off switch?” John asked humourlessly. Sherlock smiled briefly, but after a moment his hands move from the bond itself to John’s chains.

  
“No switch.” Sherlock commented. “Moriarty does not leave any loopholes.” John closed his eyes for a second and took a deep breath. When he opened them the timer had ticked to 1.16. “Sherlock.” he said loudly. His friend gave no indication he had heard. “Sherlock!” He shouted. Sherlock looked up.

  
“I’m sorry John.” He said quietly, and John was surprised to see wetness in the corners of Sherlock’s eyes.

 

0.59  
The display ticked over the one minute milestone and down into the last fifty seconds of John Watson’s life. John tried again.

  
“Sherlock.” He said hesitantly, wondering how best to persuade his best friend to give up on him.

  
“No.” Sherlock said shortly, managing to read John’s thoughts- as always. “No, I won’t ever give up on you.” He finished furiously, not looking up from his pin, still picking at John’s chains.

  
“Get out.” John said firmly, trying to muster up some of his soldier’s spirit. Sherlock ignored him. He fought to keep his voice steady as Mary’s face flashed into his mind, in her arms his baby daughter. “Sherlock, you made a vow.” Sherlock stubbornly continued to ignore him. “A vow to me, and a vow to my family.” No response. “I demand you get out and make Moriarty pay, if only to save Mary and Amanda.”

  
That got Sherlock’s attention.

 

0.31  
John was scared.

 

0.27  
“John.” Sherlock interrupted his reverie. John looked up to find Sherlock’s face mere inches from his own. John‘s breath caught in his throat and for a moment he just stared into those kaleidoscope eyes.

  
And then Sherlock leant forward and closed the gap between them. At first it was the merest brush of lips, John’s eyes wide with surprise. Sherlock’s pressed in, insistent hand on John’s neck. Then John gave in, closed his eyes and their kiss went from awkward to messy and passionate. John strained against his restraint, gasping when Sherlock drew back.

  
For another precious second, they just stared at one another, breathing hard. “Forgive me, John.” Sherlock said apologetically. “I had to do that, at least once.”

 

0.11  
“Sherlock.” John gulped. He had seconds, and he was damned if he didn’t want to spend them with Sherlock. With his best friend. Not that that could accurately describe their relationship after that kiss. You are a happily married man! His consciousness scolded him. But if he was really going to die, if Sherlock really didn’t have a plan this time; then he wanted to spend his last moments feeling those soft lips on his own. “Come here.” He said shyly.

  
It took Sherlock barely one of John’s ten remaining seconds to cross the small room and bend down to fix their lips back together again. This time it was slow and methodical, both of them carefully mapping out images of each other in their minds, exploring and it’s sweet and quiet and John thought he could get used to it.

  
After several moments, Sherlock drew back again. But only a few inches, so they were still nose-to-nose. “It’s been an honour, John Watson.” Sherlock murmured. And this time it was John who leant forward as far as his restraints would let him to reattach them at the mouth.

  
“I love you.” Sherlock mumbled. John smiled against Sherlock’s lips, conjuring up two images in his mind. Sherlock and Mary, two halves of his life, without whom he wouldn’t be here. And he couldn’t bring himself to care.  
With a final tick, the display changed to 0.00.

**Author's Note:**

> Written by Holmes and beta'd by the ever-adventurous NotQuiteWatson


End file.
